Jaraen's Ramblings: Drabbles and Lost Scenes
by EstelWolfe
Summary: This is just a collection of one-shot drabbles and lost scenes from my stories that Jaraen, my muse, has kindly handed over. It will grow in an uncertain pattern.
1. The Storm and the Sparrow

The Storm and the Sparrow

Watching him, standing at the helm, head lowered but with his teeth bared in that gold-filled grin of his that can also be a threat, it is hard to tell if he is fighting with the sea, with the thunder and the waves and the threat that hangs over his ship, our lives . . .or if he is merely playing with it.

It is an intricate game, a game with rules that no other heart or mind could ever twist around to follow, but a game nonetheless.  This is what he lives for, a sustenance that he needs just as much as a normal man needs food.  Without the game, the rush, the thrill of not so much battling as merging his will with his lover, his mistress, his dream, he would not be the same.

He knows that if he loses the game, if he does not at least manage a draw, she will claim him, claim all that he has claimed and swallow it whole, and I cannot doubt he cares.  Still, I cannot help the fear, the uncertainty, that arise each time he begins the game anew.  I do not wish to die.

All it takes is one glance at him through the wind, the rain, the screams of his living dream, at his cocky grin and fierce determination, and I know that tonight will not be the night that he loses the game.  He catches my eye, and I can see that he knows, as well, as he laughs, the sound merging with the intoxicating drum roll of the thunder, a wild mockery of the drum roll that would see men like him hang.

It is a game, a wild, deadly, fierce game, one that I know he will eventually lose, as no man can ever hold the favor of the sea forever.  I think, though, that he will hold it longer than most could, for he understands her, reads her, accepts her as what she is, and he understands that there is no personal malice in what she does.

After all, for something that has always been and will always be, nothing can be truly grave, save the dead, and the dead do not know enough to play the game with her and break the monotony of eternity.  That is why he smiles at her antics . . .that is why he laughs for me, to tell me all is well . . .

That is why the sparrow will fly through, and not around, the storm.


	2. Daft Gifts

Daft Gifts  
  
"You can't put that there."  
  
Ana-Maria stopped, staring at Jack in amused perplexity as he plucked the ornate dragon charm and chain from her fingers.  
  
"Why can't I wear it around my neck?"  
  
"Because that'd be the expected thing to do." His feet were silent as he moved to face her.  
  
"So?"  
  
"I gave it to you."  
  
"And I have to acknowledge this by wearing it in some daft fashion."  
  
"Aye."  
  
"Jack, what are you doing?" He shrugged, manipulating the chain through the holes in her shirt.  
  
She almost missed his whisper. "Better. Now it can sit over your heart." 


	3. One Last Gift

One Last Gift

The sound of uncertain feet had long since died away as the few mourners scattered.

"This wasn't supposed to happen."  A warm breeze whipped the whisper away, mocking in its tenderness.  "You were supposed to be immortal."

The crucifix on the silver chain caught the sun's light in tantalizing shimmers as shaking hands draped it around the stone marker.

"You can't put that there, you know."

Will stiffened at the unexpected intrusion.  "Why?"

"Didn't die well.  Not even buried in consecrated ground."

"He died better than you'll ever know, and he was a good man.  He should have been buried at sea.  He earned that much, at least."

The gravedigger shrugged and moved on, casting another skeptical look at the cross.

The man didn't understand.  It wasn't the crucifix that mattered.

It was the thought behind it.

And the silver.

One last gift.

"I'll miss you, brother."


	4. Glitter

Glitter

The moonlight swept down in a blue-silver flood, glinting off bone.  The glitter wasn't so strange, in and of itself.

The fact that the bone was gripping his throat in a stranglehold, though . . .that could be deemed strange.

"So there is a curse . . .that's int'resting."

"You know nothing of hell."

Bony fingers released their grip, the arm jerking back through the bars and into the illusion of life.

They were wrong.

He knew hell, had lived it these past ten years.

Funny old world, wasn't it, where a curse might provide the way back to paradise?


	5. Human

Human

"Captain Sparrow."  Calling the pirate's name didn't get a reaction, nor did shaking his shoulder.

Good.  He was finally out.  Now if only she could stand up straight, she could commence with her brilliant plan.

It had seemed a good idea at the time, getting the pirate drunk and then acting as she saw fit.  She just hadn't counted on quite how much she herself would have to drink to keep him from getting suspicious.  It might only have been a fraction of what he consumed, but it was more than enough to make the world do very strange things.

Elizabeth attempted to lurch upright again, staggering back towards the cache.

A whisper from behind caused her to whirl around, nearly falling again.  God, if he wasn't out by now . . .

"Jack?" He didn't seem to have moved from his sprawl in the sand.  Elizabeth moved closer, standing over him and studying his face.

There it was again, just the briefest plaintive whisper, spoken in rhythm to the waves on the shore.

"_Pearl _. . ."

She stood frozen for a moment, wondering if it was simply another ruse, another trick, if the pirate captain was going to suddenly spring up and lunge at her for daring to consider doing what she was considering doing.

The circular thought made her already pounding head throb faster and she settled with less than usual grace into the sand by the pirate's side . . .or at least she wanted to believe it was merely the pounding in her head that made her settle down there again.

Again the whisper rose in time to the sea, an unconscious prayer to the elemental gods.  Elizabeth leaned forward and slowly pulled his shirt away from his chest, wary of movement on his part.

She gently traced the scars.  How in God's name had he survived something like that?  What was the incident that spawned them?  Surely that story should be worthy of tales, a place in the books.

All the tales she had read as a child, the dashing men who could be tied by no law, no rules . . .none of them were true.  This was no romantic hero lying before her, drunk out of his mind and calling out in his dreams for his ship.

Calling for his ship . . .

That hardly fit the other tales she had been told, of cutthroats and rapists, the tales she heard from Norrington, that Barbossa's men had made incredibly, bitterly plausible.

This man didn't fit any tales, at least not at the moment.  He was far too . . .human.  Dangerous, predatory, unpredictable, untrustworthy . . .and scarred, injured, dreaming of what he once had.

Elizabeth abruptly stood, allowing the pirate's . . ._Jack's_ . . .shirt to again hide the scars.  She was far too tired and head-sore to think anymore on the enigma known as Jack Sparrow.

Time to go play with fire of a different sort.


	6. Grown

Grown

"Remember your place, Turner."

"It's right here, between you and Jack."

Proud, strong, defiant, young Turner was now the antithesis of everything he had been at the start of this . . .fiasco, adventure, whatever you wished to call it.  Then he had feared lifting his eyes, speaking his name, claiming his work, wary of trodding upon the toes of his 'betters', whose benevolence he had relied upon for eight years.

Norrington liked to believe he was no fool.  Only a fool would believe it had been simply Mr. Brown and his bottle that prevented Sparrow's escape, especially when the boy had been standing there, sweaty, sword still raised in defiance.

This was not merely the bright, swift burn of passion that had seen an axe plunged into a map, the burning need that had driven the young man to free Sparrow from jail and sail under his command.

No, this was calculated, a risk that was undertaken with full knowledge of the ramifications and rewards.

Sometime during the last brief days, the boy had become a man.

Heaven help him, for the courage and determination that showed in every line of his body would be no match for the hangman's noose.


	7. Resurrection

Resurrection

From the beginning of knowledge I have been by them.  My hand plucked them from Mictlantecuhtle's halls and guided them on the path to life, baptizing them in my own blood.  When at last I was forced to leave their midst, a solemn promise was given that I would some day return, to bring light and guidance again.

They are my people.

I have guarded and guided them as best I can.  I have given them fire, given them food, given them water, wind, the dogs at their feet, the drums and the flutes and the dances with which to celebrate, to mourn, to call.  I gave them hope in times of hopelessness, unity to persevere.

They have repaid me with blood, my blood returned to me, the sweeter for the sharing.  The children laugh and dance to hide the fear and the pain as they take the needle and run it swiftly through ears, tongue, nose, the crimson liquid my nourishment and my right.  The warriors call to me as they willingly allow the priest to cut through flesh and bone, revealing the throbbing pulse of life below.

They call me by blood.  They thank me by blood.  We are bound by blood.

He has stolen their blood.  He claims my name and my place, though his tongue stumbles over the word.  He is not mine.  He was given long ago to the Single in Three, the god across the great waters.  Yet he claimed my name, and out of love for me the priests did nothing 'til the time for action had long passed away to dust.

Mictlantecuhtle's halls drip crimson.  There are no shortages of bones for my twin and I to steal now.

They are my people.

It is my blood.

He swore to stop the slaughter in return for the lifeless metal.  They gave it.

The blood still drips and pools in Mictlantecuhtle's halls.

Coyolxauhqui shall aid me in my quest for vengeance.  What thinks itself real, wills itself life, coats itself in belief beneath the harsh gaze of Huitzilopochtli shall have those precious dreams ripped asunder by her gentlest touch, her softest caress.  Humanity will shudder at the truth that she reveals.

Each drop of blood, my people's blood, my blood, each precious drop that is shed by his blasphemous mouth or impious hand shall add to the power of my wrath.

I am Quetzalcoatl.

I am the bringer of resurrection.

He shall beg for Mictlantecuhtle's touch ere I am through with him.


	8. A Blacksmith's Hands

A Blacksmith's Hands

"Would you truly have only a simple blacksmith's hands upon you for the rest of your natural life?"

He asked me that once.  There was no malice in the question, only true concern for my future.

I wish I could say I didn't hesitate.

I did.  For a moment, I hesitated.

Since then I have felt those blacksmith's calloused hands every day.  I have seen them work miracles.

I have watched them take cold steel and give it life, first in flame, then in graceful movement.

I have watched them caress a child's tears away, bringing a smile in their place.

I have watched them soothe a good man lost in a dark past, bringing him some semblance of peace.

I have felt them on me, everywhere, celebrating life with everything from the gentlest strokes to the heights of passion.

And I have not regretted my choice.


	9. A Double Discovery

A Double Discovery

It was a strange sensation that flowed through his entire being, part anticipation, part fierce joy, part terror, and he wasn't entirely certain what would come out if he opened his mouth, whether it would be a laugh, a scream, a threat, a curse.  Rope fibers bit briefly into his fingers as he swung across the gap between the two ships, a treacherous, shifting, dangerous play of already-bloody water.  His ears, half-deafened by the roar of the cannon fire that had originally crippled this prize, could still discern the screams of the wounded and the splash as someone lost their precarious hold on one of the decks.  The young man set all his stubborn will to ascertaining that nothing would distract him.

It was the first time he had gotten to board a prize, and he was determined to make the most of it.

Pistols and rifles exploded from what seemed to be, and quite possibly was, directly behind his back as the two crews merged in a seething, cursing melee.  For a moment the young man just stood, matching the sway of his body to the new rhythm of the deck of this injured leviathan as he scanned for an opponent for himself.

There seemed to be no shortage of choices.

A furious swipe from the left caused him to spin and drop, emptying his pistol into the nameless sailor's upper right chest, near the shoulder.  The man stopped abruptly, his sword dropping as he first blinked and then howled in agony, backing away swiftly.

A second assailant appeared in his place, and the young pirate drew his own sword, the same mixture of exhilaration and uncertainty bringing a fierce grin to his face as he parried and attacked, half an eye always on the rest of the melee to ensure that no-one was foolishly thinking of interfering.

To say it was shock that he felt as the sword parted fabric and skin on his left arm, releasing what seemed to be a tide of crimson blood, would be like saying a tidal wave could cause a bit of a problem for a fishing sloop.

The flow of blood sparked and loosened something deep within him, the exhilaration dropping away, replaced by something weightier, darker . . .and smarter.  It was this darkness that slipped inside the other sailor's guard and plunged cold steel through yielding flesh until it saw smoke-dimmed air again.

Time seemed to distort and slow as he stared directly into the other man's eyes, eyes that had widened with a strange mixture of emotions that the pirate had never seen before.  It slowly dawned on him that while he had seen dead men, he had never seen a man die.

More and more weight came to bear on his arm and the sword that he still had lodged in the other man's chest.  The steel made a strange sound as it was pulled free, allowing the dead man to collapse to the blood-spattered deck.

"'Ey, laddie, ye all righ'?"

It took a moment for the words to become than just background sounds.  When he finally responded, it was with a slow nod.  "Aye.  I'm fine."

A heavy hand slapped down hard on his shoulder, and he realized that the residual bangs and thumps of battle were now only in his own semi-deafened ears.

"Not bad, lad.  Ye did good."

"Aye, I did.  We all did.  Quite a prize."

"Quite a fine prize."  The older man nodded in acknowledgement, studying him with eyes that were far too piercing and held far too much understanding.  "Ye searched him yet?"

"What?"

"Searched him.  He's dead, ship's ours, kill was yours, so if ye saw anthin' ye wanted off the poor bastard, better grab if 'fore we give 'im t' Davy Jones."

"Oh."  That made sense.  Somewhat.  As much sense as anything was making at the moment, anyway.  The young pirate knelt down beside the dead sailor, noting vaguely that both their hands were coated with blood.  One of the dead man's hands was latched onto a black box tied to his belt.  There was something about the box that seemed . . .enticing, inviting.

The young pirate's fingers gingerly pushed aside the dead man's and liberated the object, turning it this way and that before finding the catch and flipping it open.

A compass.  The box held a compass.  There seemed to be something wrong with the way the needle was acting, but that could very well just be due to his own inexperience with navigation and the strange feeling of detachment that still haunted his mind.

"That all ye're takin' as a token o' yer first boarding an' firs' kill?  Remember, there isn' anythin' easier t' search 'n' a dead man."  The older pirate laughed and punched him lightly in the left arm, pulling his hand back covered in blood.

"Jack, laddie, ye're bleedin'.  Why don' ye get on back o'er t' the _Seahawk_ and get yerself taken care of."  The young man could almost believe it was genuine concern in the older man's voice as he was shoved gently toward the railing.

He merely nodded in response to the veiled order before casting another vague look across the deck.  Men were rounding up those of the opposing crew that had surrendered.  His wandering eyes turned of their own volition back to his own kill and he studied the dead man, not much older than he himself was, a moment more before tying the blood-smeared black box to his own belt.  A small shudder raced along his skin as he remembered the feel of the other sailor's bloody hand in his as he relieved him of the compass, the ease with which the clutching fingers had been pulled loose.

It was true.  The dead were much easier to search than the living.

What was difficult was forgetting the look in the other's eyes as he gazed at young Jack Sparrow and found in him a swift demise.


	10. Beating the Terror

Beating the Terror

First there had been terror, the same terror that had ripped screams from my throat and found me huddling in a corner of Barbossa's cabin that night as I tried to determine whether I was losing my mind or if I really had fallen into a ghost story.

Then there was rage, and purpose.  Will needed my help.

When I didn't run, or scream, or whimper, he stopped and stared at me, seeming confused, uncertain.

If not for the fact that he was decaying, it might have been cute.

Then wood connected with bone.

Cute would wait for Will's safety. 


	11. Alone

Alone

He cared for me.

After the noise, the thunder from the clear sky, the shrieks of my family, the smell of the blood, the fear and the cage and the darkness, he cared for me.

  
He gave me food.  He gave me a place to be safe.  He took the place of my family.

I gave him more eyes, nimbler hands, sharper ears, and he took these as his due.

Then came the gold, and the darkness and the cold that slept in my bones even in the light of day.

Finally, though, finally the cold has passed . . .but he does not move.

I cry to him, yet he does not heed my voice.

I see the gold again, the gold he has always commanded me to bring him.

Even as I touch it, the cold again claims my body, the darkness eating at my being.

I bring it to him.

I place it in his hand, as I have always done.

And still he does not move, does not praise me and pat my head, say, "Thank you, Jack."

I realize that I am alone . . .alone and cold but not cold . . .

And I cry.


	12. The Nightmare Ends with Red

The Nightmare Ends with Red

At first there was no color, only the flashing white of bone and the darkness of night shadows as he engaged in a deadly dance with a partner that could only have been conceived in some hellish nightmare.

There was no chance of victory, a sure promise of death in the smile that showed, literally, every tooth in his opponent's skull.

It was only when the glint of moonlight fell on a red-tinted blade and the ghostly dance of white bones on the canvas of night was replaced by flesh that he realized the nightmare had ended and reality reemerged.


	13. Longing

Longing

I was not bred for this sea, the lullaby call of the waves, the bitter laments that may flow without warning.

The sea in my blood is of a different sort, of green, of gentle rustles, of wind not salt-laden.

I have been long from that sea.

Captured.

Afraid.

Saved.

His pleasure became mine, his food mine, his hand the only gentle touch I felt.

  
And he was gentle.

And I learned to love his sea as my own.

And now even the gentle touch of his hand and the wind-swept caress of his lover, even those are denied me. 


	14. The Trouble with Undead Monkeys

The Trouble with Undead Monkeys

Have you ever heard of a guardian for buried pirate treasure?

Of any pirate in his right mind burying all that swag in the first place?  Right mind being a relative phrase, of course.

Well, then, how about an _undead_ guardian of buried pirate treasure?

An undead guardian with very sharp teeth and manners that make mine look like those of a bloody Prince of England, who decides to guard the treasure from the very pirates it belongs to.

If the stupid blighter wasn't dead already, I'd kill it.

So, tell me, exactly how do you convince an undead, oversized rodent with a very long tail that it wants to cut itself, get blood on the amulet and then put the pretty gold back in the big chest of other pretty evil cursed gold?

No suggestions?

Barbossa must be laughing himself sick in Hell.


	15. Trust and Sight

Trust and Sight

He rarely made any attempts to remain unnoticed in a crowd.  If, by some twist of fate, a person missed the odd walk or the strange talk, there was the flash of crimson from his headscarf, white and blue and cream and the multicolored baubles tied to his hair to drag the attention.

If the poor fool should prove to be colorblind, well, there was always the walk and the talk.

And him?  The man behind the flash?  What color was it that suited that man, the man she had trusted once . . .did she truly dare to trust him again?  Not black, not red, certainly not white . . .

Draping the old coat around his shoulders, she smiled, her eyes lingering on the no-color fabric for a moment.

"The ship is yours, Captain."

The glint of gold and white as he stepped over to take command, the continued draw of his scarlet headscarf, only slightly weakened by the dousing it had taken, the faded black slip of fabric tied to his wrist as he reached hesitantly, lovingly for the wheel . . .all of that was Jack, and none of it was.

She would trust him again.


	16. A Prayer in Red

A Prayer in Red

The sun sank in a blaze of glory, tracing each cloud in gold, turning the rest to a flaming, fiery red.

"Red sky at night, sailor's delight . . ."  It was an old rhyme, one that most children who ever moved within sighting distance of water knew, that some sailors scoffed at and others swore by, as with all superstitions.

Was his prey watching the same sunset?  Did the captain hear the same simple rhyme?

Did he believe it, if he knew it?

Or was all the red that he saw that of blood?

Elizabeth swore that wasn't true.  She had made him listen to her, not by physical force, no, though she had seemed willing to try if he had made the mistake of walking away . . .but simply her demeanor, her _need_ for him to hear her, had been enough to halt his retreat.  She had told him, again and again, how Sparrow had saved her life twice, how the ball that he put into Barbossa's heart was one he saved for ten years . . .how it would have been wasted if Turner hadn't acted . . .how he was a hero, an unlikely, unkempt _hero_ . . .

And he couldn't help but listen to her, and, in some part of his mind, believe her.  There was no need for Sparrow to save Elizabeth the first time, certainly no need the second time, not at such a personal expense.  If he took life so lightly as most pirates, Brown and Turner would have been dead in the smithy, and the _Pearl_ still sailed by her ghostly crew of the damned.

Then there was that _look_ . . .that look that Elizabeth and Will hadn't been able to see, facing only the pirate's back . . .that look that simply would not leave his mind.  It was the look that many men wore to the gallows, but one that had been missing from Sparrow's face there.  It was . . .hopelessness, a hopelessness that cut deeper than any sword wound as the pirate surveyed the water before him and saw that his ship was gone, that his crew had left him behind.

It was a look no one was ever meant to see, a hurt that should have been hidden from all eyes, _would_ have been hidden from all eyes, if Galileo had not sought the stars and financed his journey with the spyglass.

For the first time in his life, James Norrington was beginning to wonder if he wanted to catch his prey at all.

The Commodore quickly shook the thought from his head and sighed.  "No red mornings anytime soon for either of us, Lord."

It was an odd prayer, but it would do.


	17. The Perfect World

The Perfect World

"Red sky in morning, sailor's take warning . . ."  Will whispered the words as he watched the sun rise, drenching the clouds in a crimson hue reminiscent of blood.

"What?"  Elizabeth moved beside him, blinking hazily into the early-morning light.  Will smiled, knowing that she wasn't used to rising with the sun.

"Just something my father wrote in one of his letters . . .Do you think Jack's all right?"

"Of course.  He's got the _Pearl_."

Of course.  Jack had his ship back, and, lack of news and superstitions be damned, that meant all was right with his world.


	18. Threesomes

Threesome

"She's a good lass, y'know.  Got a strong will . . .almost a bit too strong, at times.  Good mind, too, even if it does tend to plan things too conventionally, tad bit too linearly.  We could work on that, though.  Course, she'll just call me daft, but what else is new?

"I'm actually kind of surprised she's stayed this long.  We almost had something once.  It might've worked, too, the way that bonny lass loves the sea.

"I had to come after you, though, and if that meant a little bit of betrayal . . .

"Of course, involve the fates and let them play games, and a _little bit_ can fast become a _lot of bit_.

"Not that it wasn't worth it, love.  Anything would be worth it for you.  When I lost you that first time . . .I never knew a person could hurt so bloody much without a scratch on their body.  I really was too young for you.  If I'd been older, a bit more experienced . . .

"He would've seen me as a bigger threat and I'd've ended up somewhere with a sword in my chest or a ball in my brain, and _that_ wouldn't have been much help to either of us.

"I'm just sorry it took me so long to get back.  The things he let happen to you . . .I almost wish he was still alive so I could kill him again for what he did.  She fixed you up pretty good, though, didn't she?  Good as she could in such a short time, given she decided t' come back for me, and we did all the other major repairs soon as it was safe, aye?  You're good as new, love . . ._better_ than new, and I'm goin' to make sure you stay just like this.

"It's so good to be back here with you.  I thought about you every day, y'know, about how to get back.  Funny, isn't it, when one lady I betrayed helps me get back to the lady I betrayed her for.

"If she decides to stay . . .which it seems she's goin' to . . .if she stays, love, what d'you think about her and me?  You'll always be the first, love, but she's a good lass, a smart, strong, definitely-not-bad-looking lass . . .and she came back for me . . .gave you back to me . . ."

"Jack."

The pirate captain's head shot up and he grinned at the woman standing to his right, consciously relaxing his grip on the wheel and stilling his hands.  "Anamaria."

"What're you doin'?"

"Talking to an old friend, askin' her a very important question."

"Oh?"  One dark eyebrow arched and she crossed her hands over her chest.  "She given you an answer yet?"

"Not yet."

A slight smile twitched at the corners of Anamaria's mouth.  "You're completely daft, you know that, Jack?"

"The world doesn't seem to be much fun for the sane.  Was there somethin' you needed to tell me?"

"I was just wondering if you wanted me to spot you so you could go eat."

"That'd be wonderful.  I'll be back soon as I can be, love."

Jack gently patted the ebony wheel as he moved aside, one hand still lingering on the polished wood, to let Anamaria take control.

Before he could move any further the ship lurched sideways and Jack's balance, usually perfect on the _Pearl_, failed as his arm was jerked one way and his feet the other.

It was sheer impetuousness that caused him to lean in and kiss the woman whose arms had kept him from falling.

It was a good sense of self-preservation that caused him to freeze afterwards, counting slowly in his mind . . .

One . . .

Two . . .

Three . . .

Four . . .

Five . . .

Before daring to stare her in the eye, fairly certain the danger of being slapped or yelled at had decreased significantly by that point.

Anamaria lifted one hand to her lips and tilted her head, dark eyes unfathomable.  "Was that your answer?"

Jack's grin spread slowly across his face, displaying gold teeth amid the white.

"What do you think of threesomes, love?"


	19. Dreams and Stars

Dreams and Stars

Night was beautiful on the open water.  Each star shone with it's own brilliant light, dancing in and out of clouds, forming patterns and breaking them in time to the shifting winds of Earth.  The sea sang it's lullaby, cradling the _Dauntless_ as gently and effortlessly as an experienced mother, though he knew that the gentleness could turn to a killing rage in very little time.

This was what his father had fallen in love with . . .this was what had kept his father at the side of the mad pirate captain despite the birth of his first, and only, son . . .this was the life Will had both despised and longed to try for the last 

"Will . . ."

Will started and turned from the open water, his breath catching slightly in his throat as he found himself face-to-face with the living embodiment of the other dream he had harbored for the last eight years . . .another dream that would never be anything more than that.

"Miss Swann.  I'm surprised to see you about at this hour.  I would have thought your fiancé would want you abed and resting after the horrors you've witnessed."

"Will, stop it.  Don't you dare do this to me."

The armor that he had so carefully placed around his heart splintered at the plea, at the barest hint of tears in her voice.

"I agreed to this for you, Will.  I had to give you a chance.  I'm sorry.  If it was my choice . . ."  A single drop of moisture trickled it's way down her perfect cheek, gleaming slightly in the intermittent moonlight.

Slowly, ever so gently, the blacksmith reached out and brushed the tear aside, his hand lingering longer than was necessary.  What would she think of his rough blacksmith's hand?  Not that Norrington's would be all that much smoother.  The Commodore had the same set of calluses on his hands that marked Will's, the marked Jack's, that marked any man's hand once he took up a sword with the intention of mastering it.

Elizabeth slowly closed her eyes and leaned into his touch, lifting her right hand to cover his and hold it to her cheek.  Her left rose tentatively, gently reaching out and caressing his hair before taking a firm grasp and pulling his head closer, until their foreheads were touching.  Her eyes were still closed, her lips slightly parted . . .

Will couldn't seem to breathe, couldn't seem to move at all, so very, very close to the woman he had dreamed about for so very, very long . . .

Did Elizabeth want him to . . .?

Could he . . .?

Should he . . .?

_If you're waiting for the opportune moment . . ._

The echo of Jack's voice was all the extra urging he needed.  Gently, ever so softly, the contact so fleeting he could barely tell it had happened, his lips brushed hers.  A slight smile curled Elizabeth's lips as he tried again, deepening the kiss this time, pulling her closer, closer, living a dream, a perfect dream . . .

"No."  Will stepped back out of the embrace, breathing heavily, cursing himself internally for what he had done.  Elizabeth wasn't his, could _never_ be his.  She was the fiancé of a Commodore of the British Navy . . .she was beyond his reach, as surely as if he were dead and she still living.

"Will . . ."

"It wasn't meant to be, Elizabeth.  He's a good man.  He'll make you happy."  The blacksmith tried to smile as he turned away.

"I love you, Will."  Her arm on his shoulder was firm, almost desperate, a grasp at the dream that he knew was already dead.

Something seemed to break within his chest as Will gently twisted himself free of her hand and moved away, head hung low.

He would not dishonor any of them by allowing himself to reply to that.

Better to walk away with a broken heart than to see three lives battered beyond repair by the dreams of a pirate's orphaned whelp.


	20. Unrequited

Unrequited

I should have known, _had_ known, in some part of my mind, that there was never any true hope that I could win her.  Even if she came willingly to my arms, it would not be the choice she longed to make.  Yet I allowed myself to believe her when she said that my decision would not influence her choice . . .tricked myself into accepting the lie, suspending disbelief through sheer will to have it be truth.

It's hardly the first time I've done so.

I was still a child, a very young child, the first time that I forced myself to believe for love.  Then, though, it wasn't love a woman, but love of a concept, an ideal, that clouded my mind.

Honor.

The thought that men could live, side by side, in harmony, following a code that clearly differentiated right from wrong, good from bad . . .it was quite an enticing dream, and one I pursued wholeheartedly.  Live or die, I was convinced that life would be meaningless without that intangible path to guide my steps.

It was hardly a stretch to move from honor to patriotism, to move from loving an ideal to loving the country that I believed embodied that ideal, the country that would spread that ideal across the world.

Once again this love lead me to yet a stronger one, a love that has been known to capture far too many a soul, good, bad, or lost in the miasma between that I tried for so long to deny existence to.  The sea, mistress of so many, called to me, and I came to her happily and willingly, combining my love of my country with my love of her in what people would remark as 'an astounding career'.

An astounding career.

The sum of my wholehearted devotion to my loves is 'an astounding career', and the yearning of my heart for a woman who can never love me.

The _Dauntless_ rolls gently beneath my feet as I watch her pull young Turner closer, giving him the goading that he needs to break the bonds of society.  I should stop them, should interrupt, should demand from her the rights that, as her fiancé, are mine . . .

But I can't.

I can see that she is happy as he kisses her, can see the pain of loss in her face as he pulls away.

"Will . . .I love you."

Those are the only words spoken loud enough to filter over to me where I stand concealed by the darkness.

I turn from the scene before the blacksmith can respond, not wanting to know what he will say.  Even if she comes back to me after this, I know now where her heart lies.  She may find peace with me, eventually, but I will not be the one she calls for in her hour of need; I will not be the one her heart reaches for; I will not be the one she longs for in the dark hours of lonely nights when my earlier loves take me from her side.

I have loved the intangible, the corruptible, and the fickle.

How in heaven did I imagine I could escape love unrequited?


End file.
